


pinned down by the dark.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anonymous Sex, BDSM, Begging, Clubbing, Dominance, Flirting, Future Fic, Hook-Up, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 14:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8376148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: Danny’s been hinting that he and Jackson should have a club night since Jackson got back to the States.  Jackson went out a bunch in London, and he’s pretty sure the Beacon Hills club scene is going to be even more embarrassing than it was before.  He actually doesn’t mind that so much, though.  It means he’s going to get to be Distantly Smug, and there’s something satisfying about shitty clubs, anyway.  
No one wants to stick around long enough to actually dance much, so it cuts down the time from first glance to someone’s dick in his mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seriousshit88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousshit88/gifts).



“You coming out tonight, dude?”

Danny’s chilling in their living room without a shirt, and has been for the last hour or so.  If Danny’s going out to one of the shitty clubs in Beacon Hills, Jackson isn’t sure he’ll actually have to put one on before he heads out.

Danny’s been hinting that he and Jackson should have a club night since Jackson got back to the States.  Jackson went out a bunch in London, and he’s pretty sure the Beacon Hills club scene is going to be even more embarrassing than it was before.  He actually doesn’t mind that so much, though.  It means he’s going to get to be Distantly Smug, and there’s something satisfying about shitty clubs, anyway.  

No one wants to stick around long enough to actually dance much, so it cuts down the time from first glance to someone’s dick in his mouth.

He would’ve taken Danny up on it sooner, if it weren’t for a combination of jet lag and moving his shit into Danny’s apartment taking way more time than he expected.  But he doesn’t start work for another week, and he’s not going to say no to a night of getting bought drinks that don’t do jack shit and finding his way into someone’s bed.

“Sure,” Jackson says.  “Jungle or that new place you talked about?”

“Figured we’d go for Jungle,” Danny says.  “Their new DJ is less shitty and much hotter than the last time you were there.”

“You always go for the DJs,” Jackson comments.  He takes it to be Danny calling dibs, though that isn’t really something that Danny has to worry about.  Jackson and Danny have never had much overlap when it came to dudes they’re attracted to, the list pretty much just including Derek Hale and Scott McCall.  “You realize that means you have to wait around for him to finish up, right?”

“Wait’s worth it,” Danny assures him.  “Especially if you spend that time making eye contact.  Make it so you don’t have to wait too long to finish him up once you’ve got him.”

Jackson snorts, and Danny’s grin goes crooked.

Danny’s taste in dudes is truly terrible, but the poor DJ doesn’t stand a chance.

* * *

 

Jackson showers and gets an outfit together.  He ditched the whole cologne thing a while back, realizing it bothered his new werewolf nose more than it actually did any good in terms of getting laid.  

“I call dibs on the apartment tonight,” Danny says on their way out the door, but Jackson doesn’t care all that much.  The fewer guys he brings home to his place, the less laundry he has to do to get the smell out of his sheets.

They uber over early enough into the night that the crowds won’t have thinned, but late enough that the bar isn’t crowded.  People are already drunk enough to be dancing, Jackson is pleased to note as they bypass the line easily and make their way inside.  He glances around, glad for the superior vision his werewolf eyes give him, scoping out the crowd to see if anyone catches his interest.

“Dude,” Danny says as he drags Jackson over to the bar.  “You don’t have to get your dick wet the second you come in.”

“Just because you’re Mr. Takes Half The Night To Get It Up doesn’t mean I have to be,” Jackson teases.  

He does actually want to stick around for a while, though.  He’s missed dancing and hanging with Danny, and going for the first person who comes his way is never the best bet unless he’s looking for a shitty bathroom-stall or back-alley quickie.  It’s a quantity over quality approach, and some nights it works for him.  Some nights he just wants to be pushed down to his knees and get his mouth fucked until he doesn’t feel anything but raw.  Some nights he wants to be used, wants to go home to his own bed with grime and cigarette ashes on the knees of his jeans, his brain blissfully quiet and his body relaxed, the ache in his throat that he holds unhealed until he drifts to sleep.

Tonight, he’s feeling like making somebody work a little harder for it.  

Jackson waits while Danny gets a couple of shots in him.  The music is admittedly better than he remembered, not that that’s saying much.  The Jungle is every kitschy 90s gay club stereotype rolled into one, with the gogo dancers in booty shorts and the giant disco ball and the flashing colorful lights.  It isn’t surprising that the songs all sound the same, too loud with thumping bass and not enough words.

It’s shitty, and Jackson can’t tell a single song apart.  It’s music you can move to, though, which is all Jackson really needs.  He and Danny weave through until they find a space towards the center of the room.  Danny presses close in the throng of people, close enough that Jackson can hear Danny over the loud music, and that Jackson can feel him, the occasional brushing of hips.  Over the years Danny and Jackson have perfected it, the just close enough that it’s obvious they’re there together, but with enough space to show that they aren’t Together.

People slip in and out of their orbit, casual contact and flirty looks and lingering from one song to the next.  Jackson hands out once-overs like candy, but doesn’t find anything worth pulling him away from Danny.

“You’re feeling picky tonight,” Danny teases, nudging Jackson with his elbow.  “You wanna come get another drink with me?  We can pick a new spot after.”

“Yeah,” Jackson says.  The club’s more packed than when they got there, so Jackson focuses more on Danny’s thin frame ahead of him than the dudes around him as they head to the bar.  His eyes skim over faces without him seeing them, trying not to lose the sight of Danny’s hair in the crowd.

Maybe it’s the fact that he stops trying so hard, or maybe Danny had something in that whole change of location theory.  Jackson doesn’t know.  But he can pinpoint the moment it happens, the flash of blue in the corner of his eye that catches his attention, too focused to be the flashing lights of the club.  He’s near the edges of the crowd, the people thinned out and the bar in sight, so he looks away from Danny to follow the light.

The light’s from a pair of eyes, glowing a blue color Jackson knows intimately.  There’s a smug grin, thick arms and a tight black t-shirt and a gaze that meets Jackson’s and doesn’t waiver.  Solid hands with the tips barely pointed.  Jackson knows his reaction should be wariness, should be fear or anxiousness, should be dragging Danny out of there.  But he can’t seem to react the way he’s supposed to, his heart beating fast and a shiver going down his spine as his eyes meet the stranger’s.  He can’t seem to tear his eyes away until the eyes fade from blue to something more mundane, indistinguishable in the light of the club.

Jackson catches his breath and catches up with Danny at the bar, tacking a water onto Danny’s order.  He carefully avoids looking back over his shoulder for the werewolf, like he wants to, but he isn’t above cheating and getting Danny to look for him.  

“He looks kinda like a dude I saw at Sinema once,” Danny says.  “He was with Scott and Stiles.  Don’t know if it’s the same guy, but he’s hot.”

That should probably be a warning sign for Jackson.  If he’s hanging around with Scott and Stiles, and has blue eyes, then he could be a good guy, or he could be a really, really not good guy.  Jackson followed the Scott trail of hot and terrifying dudes once already, and it lead to claws in Jackson’s neck and jerking off material for years.

“You gonna talk to him,” Danny asks, “or are you gonna do that thing where you trick yourself into thinking you’re subtle when you’re thirsty?”

“Just finish your drink,” Jackson grumbles.  Even with the loud music, he’s betting the guy can hear every single word of this.

Jackson makes a decision, as Danny downs a shot.  If he’s going to do this, which is seeming like a foregone conclusion at this point, he’s going to give up the pretense of being stealthy and go all-in.  Jackson finds Black Shirt again on the way back into the crowd, giving him a blue-eyed once-over that spells out clearly that they’re on even footing.

The guy meets Jackson’s eyes and smirks, and Jackson knows it’s game on.

* * *

 

It takes barely any time at all for the guy to make his move, and he doesn’t start slow.  Jackson gets the tip-off that he’s coming when Danny peels off from him because he “saw some friends”, Danny’s “call me if you’re in trouble, you dumbass” expression clear on his face.  There’s exactly sixty seconds between Danny melting into the crowd and the sound of a voice in Jackson’s ear, the hovering warmth of a body behind Jackson that’s only inches away from touching.

“Nice of your friend to give us some privacy,” he says.  The voice is higher than Jackson expected, but there’s authority in it, an easy sort of confidence that Jackson is easy for.  The guy’s hands find Jackson’s hips, his fingernails blunt and human.  His fingers aren’t long, but his hands are solid and firm.  Jackson leans into the touch, and the guy presses in closer, his body a long line of heat against Jackson’s back, a leg finding its way between Jackson’s.

Jackson waits a minute, relishing in the feeling of the guy’s firm thigh brushing Jackson’s ass.  He could fall into this easily, grinding back against the guy’s dick, winding him up and teasing him until he takes Jackson back behind the building, presses him up against the brick and kisses him until he’s out of breath, grinds against him or drags Jackson down to his knees.  But Jackson isn’t going to let it go on much further without confirming that this is who he thinks he is.

He turns and sees the same smug grin as before, the dull human eyes that he can now see are a much more mundane blue.  He’s even more gorgeous up close, stubble on his face that offers the promise of beard burn that will fade too fast.  He’s shorter than Jackson thought he was, but his jeans cling to his thighs in all the right places, and Jackson can see even better up close where his shirt clings to his biceps.

“Don’t think it’s privacy if we’re in a crowded club,” Jackson points out.  It’s an easy opening for an invitation to go somewhere quieter, an easy way to figure out where exactly this guy plans on

“Going to stumble into my bed without even knowing my name?” the guy teases.  The obvious answer is yes, of course, because names don’t matter for shit when it comes to one night stands, but Jackson’s gratified that he isn’t the only one hoping this would lead to stripping each other down in a bedroom.

“I’m not calling your name when I come,” Jackson says.  “It’s cheesy and weird, and no one actually does it.  I don’t need to know your name for you to fuck me.”

“What if that’s what I want you to call me?” the guy asks.  His hands are on Jackson’s hips, again, but this time, Jackson feels the edges of a prickling, sharp claws through a cotton shirt.  The tone of his voice spells out an ending to that sentence that he doesn’t say out loud, “instead of sir,” and Jackson wants to cry a little bit.  He doesn’t have a snappy comeback, but he doesn’t want to sink this soon, doesn’t want to resort to begging or pleading or asking for much until the guy’s three fingers deep in his ass, the guy’s cock covered in a condom.

“Then I guess you’ll have to ask nicely,” Jackson says.

* * *

 

He doesn’t ask nicely, and Jackson doesn’t really want him to.  Jackson wants the slick of the guy’s tongue against his rim and the stretch of those short, thick fingers.  The grounding ache of his wrists as his arms are pinned above his head more firmly than a human ever dares.  He makes Jackson ask for every single rush of pleasure, Jackson’s voice low and increasingly thick, lost in the fog of his head and the heaviness of his body.  He loses track of how long he’s on edge, his brain and his body accepting that it isn’t his choice, anymore, that the only thing separating him from tipping over the edge is the permission of the boy on top of him, buried deep inside him.

All he can do is to beg, “ _Please, Theo_ ,” and wait.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
